Of Falls and Promises
by Absentdementia
Summary: The Dark Lord wants to see the Boy-Who-Lived dead. He knows it to be true. Then why does his subconscious seems determined to prove him wrong? Careful what you wish for. He should have remembered that adage.
The Dark Lord was very simple in terms of his desires. He knew he wanted and he let nothing deter him. And what he wanted was power. He was well on the way of fulfilling that goal by being the most powerful wizard to ever walk on earth and soon the Wizarding world would be in his grasp. That brought him to his second desire: heads of chosen few under his feet.

Voldemort never had anyone that could be called his friends. Even when he was a small child, he was probably better terms with the care taker of his orphanage than any kids of his age, that is to say not much. He didn't have acquaintances either. In relationship terms he could put all the people in three categories; his followers, his opposition and the rest relatively unimportant unless they shift to one or the other category left. Thus, no one could really claim that they knew the Dark Lord. Even so there were some points on which everyone agreed on unanimously; which people the Dark Lord wanted dead most. And they were not even wrong, dozens of killing attempts was usually enough to convince the most obtuse of them.

Of course, none who would ever oppose him would be spared, but he didn't bother each and every single one of them. His ire and cruelty was saved for precious few and only one person had vexed him to such a height that Voldemort would pay special attention to plan his capture and execution. This particular interest sometimes clashed with the progress of the war, sometimes even taking priority above all other, even his quest to establish his supremacy on all of Wizarding world. Some brave souls wondered about this obsession of the Dark Lord, none were brave enough to ever vocalize their thoughts. Hence, it would not be too ostentatious to conclude that as sure as little kid's dreams consisted of unicorns and ice creams, the Dark lord's must have maniac laughter and heads on spikes. Of course no one really wanted to say that they were wondering about what the fearsome monster might be dreaming about.

Even so, they would be wrong while hypothetically it would have been a great pleasure, he couldn't endure having the impudent boy even in his dreamscapes. Secondly and most importantly, he employed a very unrelenting occlumency that wouldn't allow subconscious emotions to drip into his mind and form any semblance of dreams because he preferred complete rest for a productive day (The Dark Lord was very dedicated to his work, even if it was takeover of the world, especially if it was taking over the world). Some might think it was only inevitable considering how often Voldemort's thoughts revolved around the boy (*obsession*), the Dark Lord on the other hand was very surprised to find himself such a dream. And the surprise was unpleasant when the most undesirable person in the entirety of the world was the subject of it.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived; the child responsible for his decade long banishment into the wilderness of Albania while he barely hung on to life, symbol of his opposition and the breathing proof of his failures. From the political point of view, the entire hope of salvation of the Wizarding world existed in the small frame of a current fourteen year child, the one locus underneath which the rest united, and he knew it would be a fatal blow to the morale if he were to destroy that fragile hope. From personal point of view, he dearly wanted to crush the irritating pest who put a wrench to each and every one of his plans. It was as if the boy's life ambition was to annoy him to death.

Considering all that, Voldemort couldn't quite settle on a single emotion the day after he had such a peculiar dream. He should be happy after such a night, after all who wouldn't after dreaming their enemy's demise? Of course, he would dearly prefer it to by his and his hand only and he was disappointed it was not so. Other than that, he shouldn't feel anything else. After all, had he not wanted to see the boy broken at his feet? Then why should those green eyes unsettle him so? Logic dictated thus and yet there was no elation in him, there was only confusion and anger; anger at the very presence of the boy in his mindscape and maybe at something more, but the confusion quickly overrode any contradictory emotions and his day was spent in such a unsettled manner that he had to consciously remind himself that he was putting far too much emphasis on a mere dream.  
That would have been the end of it. That should have been the end of it. The Dark Lord had far more pressing matters to tend to than contemplate the hidden meaning of one's dreams. He had never put any thoughts into that area of study anyhow, it being a very soft subject which was often flexible in its proper translation. Indeed, for all practical purposes that should have the end of it. But then, another night he found himself on the edge of a darkened and dystopian forest, watching as the event plays out in the exact manner the previous dream.

Dreams are mere projection of impressions embedded deep in the subconscious. They are an incomprehensible coalesced play formed by desires, fears and suppressed memories. Very rarely does it ever happen that one has the same dream more than once, considering how fluctuating and unpredictable the subconscious memories are. It should be even rarer for it to happen to someone who guards their minds not only from external intrusion but also from internal maelstrom that is the consciousness. Occlumency is instrumental in ordering the conscious thoughts, memories and also delving into the subconscious to prevent it from being cluttered with unnecessary thoughts and emotions.

That was the logical path that the Dark Lord would undertake to find an explanation for the recurring dream. A small portion of his mind did indeed, but the majority was caught in emotions that he couldn't separate or even start to understand. The fact that he would dream the death of the boy in such a manner was unexpected, and however caught off guard he might be, he refused to think about the unpredictability that his subconscious was.

The casual disregard didn't help any matters as he revisited the dream again and again. The fifth time he woke up, his rest completely ruined, he couldn't ignore it any more. There should be nothing more than nonchalance in response to such an illusion his mind wrought. But he couldn't help his oscillating emotions that he had so little control over. The fact that the boy died over and over again, even in just in his dreams, was exulting and yet those green eyes kept haunting him.

Next time, there was nothing but rage in his veins which culminated in a very painful session for the death eaters. He was blind with rage against his helplessness at not being able to stop the dreams, at being out of control for once. No matter how air-tight his occlumency barrier was, he couldn't shield against it and nor could he wake up so as to interrupt it. While it was not harmful to his psyche or physique in any obvious way, the disturbance in his mind couldn't be helped. That day, the manor bore heavy blows as a furious Dark Lord's magic tried to find an outlet for its unrest.

He loathed the dreams. He loathed at the mocking manner it would occur in consecutive nights and sometimes with a week long distance in between as if to remind him that he had no control over it. He loathed the boy for being such a nuisance even while he was not present, for ruining his days (even if occlumency helped him not let his emotions affect his goals). He loathed the empty eyes that the boy looked at him with, just before taking the small step. And he came to loathe the absence the defiance the boy naturally showed against him.

The rage was there the next time he was looking at the boy in the dreamscapes. Instead of having the neutral grey of all dreams, it looked like all color had been bled out of it. Standing at the edge of forest that resembled a victim of a fiendfyre, he watched the one who was gazing out the horizon, dusky and muted in its apathy. The only thing that seemingly had any life was the air itself, weaving promises to the dark haired boy and he seemed so intent in listening to it. Like clockwork, he turned to his lone audience with green eyes void of all emotions. Voldemort mused how he hated that more than the boy himself. Green eyes still locked with scarlet orbs, the boy took a small step backwards and he detested the helplessness in that gesture. And he himself was unable to act, to interfere, to speak out or anything but be forced to stand by and let it happen again and again. Those empty green eyes taunted at his helplessness. And he loathed it so.

He felt as if the memories of the boy were slowly being superimposed by the loathsome persona of the doppelganger in the dreams. And he was sure, it was a mere doppelganger. It couldn't be the representation of the boy without his impudence, his impertinence. It couldn't be the boy he knew and would kill; the one with eyes of emerald fire.

Probably due to this growing unrest or the frustration at his subconscious that just wouldn't understand that it didn't know how to visualize his innermost desire. Voldemort made an abrupt detour in his plans. Most of his goals had long term periods that would have a standing effect, but they would take a long time to reach their conclusion. He had made provisions for unwarranted interruptions or disruptions. But he certainly hadn't thought about the fact he himself might change his mind.

Detachedly, he wondered if the wretched boy had somehow infected him with his Gryffindor recklessness through the mind link.

It was on a Hogsmeade weekend. Hogwarts students of third year and above looked forward to these in anticipation of scouring sweet shops and enjoying romantic endeavors. Snow fell softly but the cold didn't deter the children who had been waiting to taste butterbeer all week, or the ones who had been anxiously awaiting the long expecting book in a series. Laughing among their friends, at first no one understood the arrival of men who were wearing half bone white masks and covered in black robes. Shock wore off at the first explosion and the first scream started a scrambled panic which meant the death eaters had easy targets. Most were petrified in the fear that was conditioned in the ones that had experienced the First War directly or otherwise heard most gruesome tales about. Students and villagers sought sanctuary in the shops and overturned tables, while a few courageous ones tried to protect the others. The malicious intent that the death eaters brought with them translated to red streaks on snowy ground.

But one hooded man didn't participate in the destruction that his comrades were taking delight in. instead he searched for a target with a single minded devotion, and red eyes gleamed in triumph underneath black hood when a dark haired boy wrapped in red and gold scarf stepped out with fierce set eyes. The holly wand was steady when the boy cried a cutting curse to stop a death eater, who was advancing towards a group of young students. But it didn't meet the target as a shimmering blue shield appeared fast enough to deflect it. The boy whirled around to face the one and the man in question was pleased to have all that attention to him only.

He noted with hidden amusement that the boy hesitated to make the first strike without first provocation. Such nobleness. Such naivety.

Did the boy not know that the battlefield was no place for such foolish sentiments?

Bypassing a killing curse the Dark Lord, disguised in a death eater garb, cast the cruciatus curse. The boy twisted sideways to avoid the unforgivable red streak and retaliated with a Stupefy. Voldemort barely resisted laughing at the boy.

Such innocence.

With casual grace he flicked away the hexes the boy sent his way and fired off some curses absent mindedly. If he would have been in less distracted state he would have wondered why his first curse was not the killing curse or why he even refused to cast that curse, as he calmly dueled with the teen Gryffindor. He didn't even pay much attention to the duel.

Instead he watched the boy, watched with greed in his heart, the emotions that played out in the face. There was fire lit in the bright green eyes, brighter than the Avada Kedavra. There was wide eyed determination and frustration at being played so artfully. White snow, as pure and bright as the soul of the boy, fell with soft sigh on the dark hair, dark lashes creating a sharp contrast. Lips were pursed and pale cheeks flushed with the exertion of the duel and cold. And the Dark Lord drank in the life that danced so clearly in those green eyes ravenously. He hadn't known exactly why he had created a small diversion in his plan, but he must have known somehow that all those exhausting rewritten reports worked towards this moment. That all he had wanted was to see the boy again, to see the defiance that had once infuriated him but now calmed him in its familiarity. That day, all colors were subdued as snow overwhelmed the surfaces and all he could see was the monochromatic contrast. It should have reminded him of the deserted feel of the dream, but instead made the day all the more enchanting, for the picture in front of him was bursting with a life completely surpassing the despair that had knowingly burrowed into his soul.

He couldn't delay his departure however he wished otherwise, because there were the teachers and aurors rushing in to rescue the terrified students and there was the exalted Albus Dumbledore looking anxious at the sight of his favorite boy facing a death eater all on his own. With a last glance, he disapparated filled with satisfaction.

The public refused to believe the attack on Hogsmeade might have been orchestrated by the Dark Lord and that he might indeed be back. The ministry claimed that it was the work of a couple of independent death eaters who were encouraged by the announcement of the Boy-Who-Lived. The reputation of the boy was further vilified and his name was ruined to such an extent that the public uttered it with disgust. The death eaters were amused by the sheer need of ignorance and continued denial of the Wizarding World, but thankfully it seemed there need not be any change to the previous plans. No one was really sure why there was such a need for an unnecessary mission that didn't even have any casualty, but no one dared ask the one who had suggested it in the first place.

As for the Dark Lord, there was only a faint worry that the fire in those green eyes would dim as the public continued to shower him with such loathing and he only hoped the next time those orbs wouldn't be as empty as the dream child possessed. And all that worries because he wanted to be the one to extinguish the brightness in the emerald fire, because he wanted to be the hand that broke the dark haired boy.

Yes, that was all that was, he told himself.

He was content though, his plans had suffered no misalignment and the root of those dreams had now been eradicated. It had been clear that he preferred the boy with all his Gryffindor impertinence and his subconscious needn't crave the sight of a broken child that had not fallen at his wand. He was very satisfied indeed.

The illusion remained for a full week, lulling the Dark Lord into a false security only to be shattered with a spiteful recurrence of the dream. He watched with a quiet emotion as the whispers cloaked the boy like a blanket, seductive promises that brushed across a pale cheek. There was no variation in the dream and Voldemort had seen it so many times that he could even time them perfectly. Even so he couldn't quite suppress the hitched breath at the sight of the green eyes, the only color in that accursed land, empty like the soullessness it reflected. Looking right into his eyes, the boy took the step backwards, and his body fell like a broken doll, fell off the edge of the cliff into a depth he couldn't follow. He took the step with a resignation that made it seem like it was what he was destined to all along, that his life had been leading to that very moment and there was nothing the child could do, but accept it.

Denial at heart the Dark Lord went about his day refusing to acknowledge the dream, to acknowledge the accompanying emotions. The ever oscillating emotions tended to extreme rage again and Voldemort cursed the boy (the verbal kind, not the magical for the target wasn't present), because he was certain that this couldn't be his dream. He was convinced for whatever reason the boy kept dreaming of his own demise and through the mind link, it leaked into his own subconscious and wrecked havoc. The day he next saw the boy, he vowed, he would exact his revenge for all the sleepless nights the Dark Lord suffered.

But it didn't matter. For all the promises for vengeance and what the death eater suffered to appease their master of his fury, it didn't change the fact that the dream continued to haunt him under the occlumency barriers. It didn't change the fact even the brief sight of the boy with all his emerald fire couldn't burn away the memories of the helplessness that the child showed in those accursed dreams.

Again and again, the Dark Lord lost his temper and the second glass shattered against the wall.

Some days he wondered if this was a tactic to drive him to madness.

He strove to suppress the memories far beneath so that he might someday forget it all. But like an apparition that wouldn't abandon its haunting place, the dream didn't let him off either and try all he might, he couldn't stay indifferent. Every night he went to bed apprehensive and every time he woke up from a dreamless sleep, the days were notably less painful for his followers. Every day he didn't, he buried himself under work he shied away from otherwise, he pursued reports that were mindlessly dull and had least substance and spent the evenings gazing out the horizon holding a full wine glass in pale fingers.

The inner circle noticed the wistful contemplation of the Dark Lord, but those particular days were so unpredictable in the presence of a volatile Dark Lord that none dared bring it to his attention and instead watched with curiosity while their master would excuse himself from dinner to stand by the French window.

The day that all his patience was designed to be reimbursed, he organized the group that would lead the offensive strike and confirmed that each knew their roles in the mission. By using the same mind link that the boy tormented him with, he planted bait with the false vision of capture and torture of a beloved godfather. And like the predictable and foolish child that he was, the boy marched into the Ministry of Magic with a group of anxious friends.

He hadn't needed to accompany the death eaters. Indeed, he shouldn't have to, for the lure was so that the return of the Dark Lord wouldn't be public knowledge. It still wouldn't be, he reasoned to himself, as he disguised himself as a common death eater akin to the day of the Hogsmeade attack. He just wanted to keep an eye out for his followers, and that was all. It had nothing whatsoever to do with a desire to catch another glimpse of the fiery Gryffindor; nothing to do with the hope that one sneak peek might appease him against the dreams that still haunted him.

He stayed in back, enraged at how casually the death eaters revealed their identities in their arrogance but didn't interfere. He hadn't entrusted any of the death eaters with the truth of his identity after all. It was a wise decision; he couldn't quite expect them to treat him befitting of the persona he had donned. He watched silently in the back, while the death eaters trapped the teenagers and persuaded them into giving them the prophecy. He fought alongside, never letting his mask up, but mostly keeping an eye on the boy and his possession. He was patient even while the bothersome order arrived and none recognized him. He was careful in his casting, never letting his magical prowess slip. Aside from the deeply hidden wish that might or might not have been acknowledged, he rather enjoyed participating in the duels and utterly decimating his opponents, pitiful excuses of wizards that dared oppose him.

The exhilaration of repeated victories caught him up as he fought one order member after another. He didn't really pay much attention at that moment, but the crazed laughter of his best lieutenant induced an absent gaze in her direction before he stiffened and completely disregarding the wizard he was playing with, he turned to the scene with tightness in his heart.

A detached part of him identified the feeling as horror.

There was the dark haired boy, fighting against Bellatrix and his steps mere feet away from the veil, the archway of death. The tattered curtain that marked the entry fluttered in an unseen breeze, and he knew if he would strain his ears he could hear whispers that drifted from the abyss beyond. The boy was so very close that the cloth could almost touch his robes.

Nobody, nobody noticed their beloved savior standing at the precipice, from which with the slightest nudge he would fall into oblivion.

Incomprehensibly, the Dark Lord throat worked to shout a warning to the boy's friends. He didn't have to; the boy's godfather blasted the witch away from his immediate proximity.

But he wasn't close enough, not close enough to do anything as the boy's feet caught in sudden surprise and now released from the distraction from the duel, the green eyes turned to the whispers beyond the abyss.

Fear (and for the first time in a long time fear not for himself) threatened to strangle him in an unrelenting vice as the green eyes sought him out unmistakably, calm acceptance in them.

He had been such a fool. He had forgotten that dreams could also predict the future.

But there was a difference this time. It was not a mere dreamscape and he wasn't as helpless, as bound to be a mere spectator. With the whirl of a shadow he was gone in an instant only to reappear by the boy's side to grasp his robes in an unforgiving hold and pull him away from the soft promises that even now caressed the boy's skin, to persuade him to let go. Barely containing a snarl, he dragged the surprised boy into his embrace as they both sank down into the floor.

The boy had been such a nuisance to all his plans, the obstacle that propped up every time he advanced somehow, the one behind whom the entire Wizarding world would rally once he stepped out of the shadows. He had been the one responsible for his defeat and the one who always defied him. They were prophesied enemy, supposedly destined to stand against one other. But none of those mattered to him.

Instead he concentrated upon the dark hair that was splattered against the sweaty face, the green eyes, green like poison, peek out under large spectacles with faint understanding and he knew the boy had the epiphany the same time he had, and only just recognized it as an omen of death. There was confusion there as well, because the boy didn't understand why he had bothered. Surely, the Dark Lord would prefer that the Boy-Who-Lived suffer an untimely demise? Voldemort refused to address that question at that moment.

As pale fingers ,slightly trembling, swept away the offending bangs from the face, he thought of the times he wanted to curse the boy for having put him through those dreams, for having dared disturb the Dark Lord from having a restful sleep. He thought of the multiple vows he had taken to punish the boy for his impudence. But all he could do was caress the dark hair again as if to reaffirm the proof of life and chide softly, to reassure himself that he had not failed yet again "You foolish, foolish boy."

The green eyes shone with bewilderment, but slowly and tentatively innocent hope crept in. What did he hope for? That the Dark Lord had indeed saved him without a price? That his enmity would be discarded so casually? But the little Gryffindor had died enough times to pay his debt and Voldemort couldn't bear one more, one that would be too final.

There was a sharp intake of breath as a small hand removed his mask and the Dark Lord steeled himself. But the boy only touched his cheeks slightly before whispering, "You didn't let me fall."

There was fear in the small voice. Had the boy been haunted as well? Had he been helpless in the dreams as well, forced to die again and again, unable to resist the calls of the dead? Had he looked at the scarlet eyes in silent pleading and been rebuffed every single time? Had he thought the Dark Lord had any voluntary range of motions and that he merely appeared to enjoy his death? Or had he seen the despair that had risen slowly but surely in the Dark Lord? There was nothing to be said for that, and it didn't matter.

"You deserve a punishment for that." He wondered what the others might be thinking about the golden shield around the two of them. But the world didn't matter as soft disbelieving laughter escaped the one he held in his embrace like the precious treasure he was.

"I am sorry." There could never be enough apologies for the fear he had felt, an emotion that was as rare as those emerald gems. But he was enchanted, in the life that sparkled like tiny jewels. He was absolutely enraptured with the dark haired child.

"Hmm… I will think of something." He should let him go, he knew. At least that was what propriety dictated. But the moment his embrace loosened, there was a hesitant grip on his robes.

"Don't let go." Don't let me fall. Don't make me return to nightmares. Don't let me be alone. There were thousands of silent whispers in between them and the Dark Lord answered them all.

"I promise."


End file.
